Turn Off The Night
by cryptictac
Summary: House struggles with the impact the infarction has left on him, and Wilson's there every step of the way. One year post infarction, HouseWilson. Warning: Medically graphic nature intrinsic to plot, no depictions of blood, etc. New chapter added.
1. Turn Off The Night

"Do you need anything before I go?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

You feel Wilson's hand smoothing your hair back once and if you weren't so doped up on narcotics that you can hardly move a muscle, you'd slap his hand away. "Call me," Wilson says, sounding a million miles away from you, "if you need anything."

_Fuck off_, you want to tell him. Your face is pressed into the pillow, your jaw slack, your body so heavy it feels like it's going to sink into the mattress. You sluggishly lick your chapped lips, your tongue tasting as dry as cotton wool, and you struggle to open your eyes to look up at Wilson standing over you beside your bed.

"Sleep," Wilson quietly orders.

Yeah, sleep, the way it's pressing down on your mind and your body, you know you're not going to be able to fight it much longer. The pain in your leg, it's still there, right there, right beneath the surface like an infected itch that you can't reach, burning and throbbing in a taunting hum.

_It hurts_, you want to say to Wilson. _My leg, Wilson, it hurts_. You struggle to try and open your eyes again to look at him, snatching a blurry image of the back of Wilson through your heavy eyelids before your eyes fall shut again. You can hear his footsteps on the floorboards, retreating from the bed towards the door; a dull echo in your ears.

You can't fight the desire to sleep, though. It's stronger than you are at the moment. Everything's starting to fade around the edges as you feel yourself being swallowed into drug-induced darkness.

"I'll be back later," you hear Wilson's voice say, hollow and distant, like you're in a tunnel and he's at the other end, calling out to you.

_Okay_, you want to say. _Okay_... Your thoughts are waning into a swirl of blackness, though. Receding, slipping away from you. You just… can't… keep…

You don't hear the bedroom door close as Wilson leaves.

* * *

It's been almost a year since the infarction; a long, torturous, angry year. 

The little things that you still struggle to do on your own are the things that frustrate you the most: dressing yourself, especially pulling pants on, showering, going to the toilet, even wiping your own god damn ass. You never realised before the infarction just how much you use your leg muscles, how unaware of them you were. But now, every move you make reminds you of what you _can't_ do, and you hate the word _can't_. You hate it because _can't_ means defeat. _Can't_ means weakness, giving up, failure, and the more you struggle to fight against _can't_, the more you find you _can't_ do the things you wish you could still do.

Which is why Wilson's always there, always helping you on the days that your home help the hospital arranged for you upon discharge several months ago isn't here to help you. Really, you should be grateful because you have no one else. You should be grateful that Wilson's there to help you with your clothes and to help you into the shower, and to help you onto the toilet. But, fuck, you can't be grateful because you hate how humiliated your own body makes you feel.

_Can't_. That word again.

Sometimes when you're in the shower and you're sitting down on the seat that was installed for you before you came home, you stare down at your thigh. At the disfiguring scar, the huge dent in your flesh, all twisted and gnarled. You remember Cuddy talking about amputation and find yourself picturing looking at a stump. You remember telling Cuddy you wanted a bypass, and find yourself picturing your leg as it was before _this_.

You can wash the top half of your body without a problem, but it's the bottom half you need help with. You look at Wilson with utmost resentment as Wilson rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and reaches into the shower for you, grips your arm while your other hand grasps fiercely at the bar installed on your shower wall. He often gets wet from the spray of the water ricocheting off your body onto his; dampening his hair and sometimes soaking his shirt. He helps you without complaint, though, holding you up as you wash your dick and your ass with the soap. You want to spit angry, venomous words at him because of how humiliated you feel, wanting to place the blame on Wilson for how horrible and miserable you feel. In fact, sometimes you do - sometimes you tell him to get fucked, to stop treating you like you're an invalid, to stop doing everything for you like you're _incapable_.

He usually ignores you, or says something so passive aggressive that you want to punch him; something like, "Fine, don't take my help, then" - which just corners you into having no choice but to accept his help because you really are useless without him.

Or those times you're stuck on the toilet, struggling to shit because the painkillers bind you up so much you can't do a crap worth goat pebbles. Constipation wouldn't be such an issue if you weren't on such a high dose of hydrocodone - and you wouldn't be on such a high dose of hydrocodone if you weren't suffering neuropathic pain. Sometimes the constipation cramps are so fucking bad, you're almost doubled over with pain in your side or your lower belly. You can't even _shit_ right anymore. Sometimes you're on the toilet for more than half an hour, straining and grunting in frustration, your asshole stinging with haemorrhoids from pushing so much.

It's where you are now: on the toilet, your boxers down around your ankles, your elbows propped on your knees as you stare fiercely down at the floor in concentration. You've been here about fifteen minutes, maybe twenty - long enough that your ass is going numb from being on the hard toilet seat, at least. You can hear the television in the living room, Wilson surfing through the channels slowly while he waits for you to call out for him to get you.

You've been trying to shit properly for the last three days. In your right side, you can feel a dull cramping sensation, something you're getting more and more desperate to relieve. You're sick to death of chugging down bowel relaxants and eating high fibre food to try and have a simple, basic bowel motion. Especially seeing these fucking painkillers stunt your appetite.

That's not all they do, either. Sometimes you break out into clammy sweats, feel shaky and dizzy without warning, fatigued and weak. You can't even get a hard on sometimes because the drugs have shot your sex drive to hell. Or maybe that's just the pain in your leg. Or maybe that's your self-esteem, shattered to pieces. Maybe it's all three of those things.

You grunt, straining to make _something_ happen, your fist now pressed against the wall. It's no use, though, and in a fit of frustration, you thump your fist hard against the wall and let your head fall forward. You thump your fist against the wall again, and again.

Wilson obviously thinks you're calling out to him, because you hear the television switch off, followed by Wilson's footsteps approaching down the hall. _Go away_, you think resentfully to yourself.

"House?" Wilson asks, quietly knocking on the door.

You pause a moment, giving another half-hearted strain, then call back in an annoyed voice, "What?"

"You okay?"

"Yeah," you reply bitterly, "just trying to take a dump. As usual."

Wilson pauses. "Can I come in?"

_No_, you want to snap. _No, fuck off._ You're going to need help off the toilet, though, at least to pull your pants up, so you sigh and say in a reluctant voice, "Yeah."

Wilson hesitantly opens the door and glances at you before quickly looking away as he enters the bathroom. He moves across to the bathroom sink and busies himself with tidying up some things which don't really need tidying at all, to give you some privacy. You find yourself strangely grateful that Wilson at least lets you maintain what little amount of dignity you have left.

You watch his back for a moment. "I can't shit," you say wearily.

"Large, four-hourly doses of Vicodin'll do that to you," Wilson agrees lightly.

You snort. You prop your elbow onto your knee and cover your face with your hand, a sudden feeling of frustration welling in you, welling in you so much that you feel your eyes start to prickle and burn with the threat of tears. You pin your fingers and your thumb to your eyes as if to physically hold back the sudden desire to cry because _you just want to take a fucking dump_.

"Yeah," you finally reply.

You hear Wilson stop fiddling around with the things on the bathroom sink, followed by the sound of his feet scuffing on the tile floor as he turns to look at you. _Don't look at me_, you think to yourself. _Don't fucking look at me_.

"You okay?" he asks again.

You rub your eyes, desperately willing the burning in your eyes to stop. You drop your hand away from your face and look up to Wilson, feeling helpless. Probably looking just as helpless and desperate, too. It's even worse that Wilson's looking at you _like that_, all annoyingly concerned, while you're sitting on the fucking toilet of all fucking things. Not that this is anything new, really - he's seen you at your lowest, time and time again, something you should be used to by now, except you're not used to it because getting used to this would mean accepting how much of a sad, miserable, pathetic bastard you've become.

"No, not really," you admit.

Wilson sighs, leans back against the sink and crosses his arms over his chest. "Anything I can do?"

You smile humourlessly. "You want to pull a turd out of my ass? That'd be a big help."

Wilson doesn't smile back. "Emollient laxative? Softens the stool and--"

"I know what it _does_," you snap. You sigh irritably. "I want to shit _now_, not in twelve hours' time."

Wilson watches you for a long moment. You know that look on his face; it's the same look he gets when he's lecturing you. "The laxatives you've taken should work," he begins. "The whole reason they haven't is because you don't move around anywhere near as much as you should. You don't even do your physiotherapy exercises properly like you're supposed to."

"Don't start," you warn.

"There's no reason," Wilson continues, ignoring you, "why bulk-forming laxatives shouldn't work."

"It's called long-term opiate use," you say darkly.

"You can't rely on drugs alone just to help you function," Wilson argues.

You shoot Wilson a sinister look. "Try telling that to your cancer patients."

"Cancer and palliative care are completely different things to your situation!"

"It's opiate use, whether it's for palliative care or neuropathic pain," you retort, anger starting to rise within in you. Fighting while you're sitting on the toilet trying to take a dump with Wilson standing there in front of you: such an exalting experience. "Causes constipation, no matter what!"

Wilson throws his hands in the air. "You need to get off your ass more, House. Move around, get your body--"

"I _need_," you yell, "to shit!"

The word 'shit' echoes loudly in the bathroom and throughout your apartment. Wilson stares at you with a look of frustration on his face, until he sighs and looks away. "Fine," he concedes meekly. "Suppositories, then."

"Still takes too long," you gripe.

Wilson rubs the back of his neck. "Bisacodyl suppository. Works in fifteen minutes, usually. Or an enema: almost instant effect."

You glower at Wilson. Just the mere thought of needing a suppository or an enema fills you with indignation - but if you want an instant result, a suppository or enema is what you're going to need. The worst part of that is you're not going to be able to administer the suppository or enema yourself. You'll need someone's help, _Wilson's_ help. If showering you and helping you off the fucking toilet aren't degrading enough, getting Wilson to stick things up your ass to help you shit is definitely a whole new level of low.

But what choice have you got? It's either accept that you need to forego your dignity in order to be able to crap, or remain in discomfort with bowel and stomach cramps.

"Okay," you agree in a surly tone after a long pause. No use trying to crap now, not while you've been trying to for the last half an hour without success. You wave at Wilson to come over to you, bracing one hand against the wall while you hold your other arm out to him. Without hesitation, he pushes away from the sink and takes your arm, and you grunt in pain as you push yourself up from the toilet. Wilson stoops down to snatch your boxers and tugs them up your legs until they're within your reach for you to pull up over your hips yourself.

"You okay?" Wilson asks, still clutching your arm.

"That's the third time you've asked me that," you snap.

"I'll take that as a yes," Wilson sighs, reaching for your cane propped by the toilet.

You take the cane and begrudgingly let Wilson guide you out to the living room. He tells you he'll go to the drug store and asks if you want anything else. You tell him to get fucked.

He slams the door behind himself loudly as he leaves your apartment.

* * *

You're slumped on the sofa, staring at the television blankly as you wait for Wilson to return. 

You're so fucking sick of television. Same shit, day in and day out; Oprah Winfrey, Ricky Lake, Law and fucking Order, Melrose Place, Quantum Leap reruns. You're fucking sick of Wilson. You're fucking sick of not being able to shit properly, not being able to function like a normal human being, not even being able to jerk off like you sometimes want to - not because you really feel that aroused but because, despite how much everything in your life has crumbled away, you want to prove to yourself that you still have blood pumping through your veins.

You're sick of Wilson's cooking, you're sick of takeout, you're sick of bed, you're sick of the pain that won't _go away_ in your leg, you're sick of _everything_. It frustrates you so much sometimes that you want to throw things, punch things, punch Wilson when he's in your face about something you really don't give a shit about. Like how it's time you left the apartment to integrate yourself back into the world, get back into the routine of normal life.

You can't bear that thought. You can't bear the thought of leaving the sanctuary of your apartment; it's become a security blanket for you, a safe, warm place that keeps you bitterly complacent in your misery. You hate it when people come to your door, you hate it when the phone rings, feel paranoid every time your answering machine clicks on to take a message for you - in case it's someone's voice you don't want to hear, like Mom wanting to know how you're holding up.

Or Stacy. Not that she's called you in a long while. But every time the phone rings, you think it might be her and you sometimes find yourself holding your breath, expecting to hear her voice after the beep on the answering machine. You're not sure why you expect it to be her - maybe there's a part of you that somehow hopes it's her. Because you miss her, you miss her like crazy. You miss her, and hate her, and love her, and there've been moments since she left you where you've felt so full of despair at having lost her that you've wanted to cry.

You scrub your hands over your face. You don't want to think about Stacy. That's one good thing the Vicodin's useful for - dulling your mind into a fog, forgetting about Stacy, forgetting about your anger and your bitterness. But at times like this when you're lucid in between doses of medication, you can't help but find yourself thinking about her. Wondering what she's doing, where she is, if she misses you, if she's hurting - and you hope to god that she is. Hurting as much as you're hurting.

You snatch the remote up from your lap and start angrily firing through the channels to find something else to watch, something, anything other than Ricky fucking Lake, and just as you settle on a crappy Love Boat rerun, you hear the front door opening.

"About time," you snap at Wilson.

"Hello to you, too," Wilson says wearily. You hear plastic bags rustling before the front door closes, and look over your shoulder to see Wilson struggling into the kitchen with bags of groceries.

"You went shopping."

Wilson turns to look at you evenly, shaking his hand as though the bags he'd been carrying had cut into it painfully. "Actually, no, these bags are just a figment of your imagination. The groceries aren't really here, and neither am I."

You roll your eyes and look back to the television. "I've been sitting here, waiting for an opportunity to shit, and you go shopping."

"Food, you know," Wilson replies dryly as he starts to put the shopping away into the cupboards. "Funny how the human body can't live without it."

"The human body can't live without the natural act of shitting, either."

You hear Wilson give a sigh of irritation. "I was out, knew there was no food here," Wilson argues, "figured I might as well kill two birds with one stone."

"I need to shit."

Wilson slams the cupboard door shut, loudly. It makes you jump, and you snap your head in Wilson's direction and see him standing there with his hands on his hips and a look of exasperation on his face. "Tell me again you need to shit," he says challengingly.

"I-- Wilson--"

"Tell me again, House," he cuts you off. "Tell me another ten times, twenty times. Hell, tell me another hundred times if it makes you feel better, so I get the message that you need to take a crap and you can get it out of your system how I'm doing wrong by you."

You open your mouth to retort, then think better of it and close it again. You turn your attention back to the television to escape the dark glare Wilson's giving you, trying in vain to ignore the conflicting stab of guilt and anger simmering in your veins. God damn Wilson, you think to yourself, god damn him. Fucking asshole, helping you and doing all this stuff for you that leaves you feeling both useless and indebted to him. It's a horrible feeling, being so dependent on someone when it's not in your nature to be dependent at all. You resume channel surfing to distract yourself, so you don't have to think about how guilty you feel for treating Wilson like shit sometimes, when all he's trying to do is help you.

Wilson seems to get over it, though; he comes out to the living room after putting everything away, the small box containing the enema in his hand. "You want it now?"

You look up at him and reluctantly nod; no, you don't _want_ the enema. But you _do_ want to shit and relieve this terrible constipation pain in your gut. He holds his hand out to help you up from the couch.

"Fuck you," you say to him and to the offered hand.

"Fuck you, too," Wilson replies petulantly.

You glare at him for a moment while he watches you with annoyance. You relent and take his hand.

* * *

There's nothing more humiliating, you decide, than the idea of lying on your side with your white, naked butt facing your best friend in order for him to give you a quick rectal examination. 

"No way you're sticking your finger up my fucking ass," you declare.

"I'm going to be sticking an enema up there in a minute, what difference does it make?" Wilson exclaims.

"Enema bottle," you reply, pointing to the small box with Fleet Ready-To-Use Bisacodyl Enema in Wilson's hand. You then hold your middle finger up at him. "Appendage. Two completely different things."

He ignores your rude gesture. "I'm a doctor, not some anal-probing deviant."

"You're my _best friend_," you reply sharply as you drop your arm back to your side. "Or supposed to be."

The look Wilson gives you is somewhere between incredulous and like he'd just been slapped hard across the face. You probably should feel regret for saying what you'd just said, except right at this moment you don't care. "Supposed to be," Wilson echoes. "Right, so I'm just helping you out here, bending over _backwards_ for you because I'm _supposed_ to be your friend, but I'm not really."

You rub your hand over your face, feeling a pang of guilt because Wilson's right, in all his passive aggressive glory - he's been bending over backwards for you for all this time and where would you be without him? Without another word, you climb awkwardly onto the bed and shift onto your side, pushing your sweatpants and boxers down over your ass.

Wilson sighs. "House…"

"Shut up and get on with it," you snap.

You listen to Wilson moving about the room, snapping gloves on, popping the bottle of lubricant open to smear his finger up and then feel the bed dip under the weight of Wilson's knee pressing down onto it. He lays a hand on your hip as he reaches his other hand down to your backside; his finger's cold and slimy, wholly uninvited as far as you're concerned, as he pushes it into your ass to feel the tightness of the anal muscles. You try your hardest not to jerk away from him or elbow him in the face.

"A lot of fecal matter impacted in your rectum," he announces as he pulls his finger out.

You want to yank your pants up and shy away from Wilson ever touching you again, you feel so stripped of your dignity. "You don't have to talk to me like I'm your patient."

"What do you want me to say, House?" Wilson replies, his voice sharp with irritation. "Your ass is packing shit?"

"Well, it is, by the sound of it," you say dryly.

Wilson snorts. "Guess that means I can say that you're full of shit and actually mean that literally for once."

In spite of yourself, you give a quiet snort of laughter. "You saying you think I'm full of shit?"

"You are now, at least, yes."

"But you think I'm _the_ shit, otherwise."

"I think you're _a_ shit," Wilson argues. "_Everyone_ thinks you're a shit."

"We all got to be something," you say in your defense.

"'We all got to be something, even if that means some of us are nothing but shit'," Wilson echoes with feigned incredulity. "Gee, what a profound statement on the purpose of human existence."

"What can I say - I'm the shit, like I said."

"You're _a_ shit," Wilson corrects you.

"'A shit', 'the shit'," you argue with a shrug. "Semantics."

You hear Wilson give a laugh equal parts amused and frustrated and for the first time in a long while, even though Wilson just had his finger up your ass, you feel a little better. You're even smiling.

Not for long, though. Wilson helps you tug your sweatpants and boxers off so you're now lying on your side without anything on except your t-shirt. "Shift over a bit a moment," he tells you.

You do as you're told and feel a towel being laid out and wedged underneath your hip; something to soak up any mess you might accidentally make. You swallow back the urge to make a biting remark to Wilson about how you're not a god damn baby, for fuck's sake.

"Draw your leg up to your chest."

"I know how to do this," you reply crossly, feeling your dignity quickly stripping away from you again because any minute now that enema's going to be in your ass and who knows if you'll even make it to the toilet in time.

"Yeah, I know," Wilson says patiently. "I'm just… telling you."

_You know what?_, you want to snarl. _Fuck off. Don't touch me. Get lost, don't ever come back, you asshole._ You bite your tongue and carefully grasp your thigh in your hand, and slowly draw it up towards your chest as far as you can make it go and, fuck, it hurts, it hurts so badly. You gulp back a sound of pain threatening to escape from the back of your throat.

Wilson obviously notices you're in pain, maybe from the way you're suddenly tense and hunching your back over. "You okay?"

"Jesus Christ, stop asking me that!"

"Okay, okay," Wilson relents, and you can just picture Wilson holding his hands up in self defense at you.

You manage to get your knee as close to your chest as you can, your muscles shaking and your forehead breaking out in a mild sweat from how much it fucking _hurts_. This beats showers where you can't stand up to wash your ass, and wiping your ass after taking a dump. Especially when you feel the spongy tube being pushed into your anus, followed by the cold squirt of the enema being administered into your rectum; a strange sensation of irritation and fullness that your rectum instantly responds to by contracting slightly. At least Wilson's quick - you feel the tube being pulled back out almost straight away, followed by Wilson's hand bracing against your hip to keep you on your side.

"You--"

"Don't ask me that question again," you say menacingly.

Without any warning, you feel a sudden rush in your ass, a swift almost uncontrollable desire to push. You clench your ass as tight as you can to retain the enema, fisting a hand into the pillow beneath your head. Your stomach and bowels starts to cramp; the enema working faster than you expected to. You grit your teeth and breathe through your nose to control the urge to expel everything.

"Fuck," you gasp at the cramping pain twisting in your gut, an almost excruciating sensation of bearing down rippling through your rectum as the urge to shit gets stronger and stronger.

"It's okay, House. Just breathe. Try to hold it in."

You don't last ten minutes. You're too desperate to get to the toilet to relieve the cramping in your gut to really notice the small mess you'd made on the towel - but god, the relief once you finally, _finally_ shit; you almost cry with relief.

You're sitting slumped on the toilet by the time Wilson comes back to check on you after ten minutes or so. He helps you up, flushes the toilet, helps you wipe your ass and then hauls you into the shower to help you wash off the mess that had dribbled down your legs when you were making your frantic way to the bathroom. You feel debased, stupid, undignified and humiliated, again, and perhaps Wilson is aware of this because he doesn't say a word; just silently crouches down to assist in washing your feet and just as silently backs away when you fire a rejoinder at him to fuck off. You've been saying that to him a lot lately.

By the time you're helped back to the bedroom when you're dry, you find the soiled towel gone, the bed sheets changed and a clean change of clothes waiting for you on the bed. You feel too detached from yourself out of shame to react to how much Wilson's going out of his way for you. In fact, you'd become detached and despondent the moment your bowels were empty and you had nothing left to do except sit on the toilet and look down at your shit-streaked legs, wondering to yourself how it was possible that a year ago you were an athletic, active man with a woman you loved like crazy, and now you're nothing but a useless cripple.

Wilson asks you if you want food once you're dressed; you shake your head as you climb into the bed. You just want to rest, put the whole embarrassing situation behind you, have Wilson out of your sight, just be left alone in your own misery because you feel nothing but low and pathetic now.

He comes back into your room with your pills and a glass of water, and watches you swallow the Vicodin. It doesn't take too long for them to start working: you feel your body slackening, your head growing heavy, your eyes blurring over and your body slowly melting into a feeling of leaden bonelessness.

You tell Wilson, again, to fuck off in a slurred voice, and you want to argue with him when you feel the bed dip under Wilson's weight as he sits down beside you on the bed. "I'm not going anywhere," you hear him say, but he sounds as far away from you as the east is from the west.

_Stubborn fucking…_, you start to think. Stubborn fucking asshole, you'd wanted to say. The thought drifts off into blackness, though, along with the rest of you.

You don't feel his hand stroking your hair as you slip into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Sometimes, when you wake up after having taken your pills, you find you'd fallen asleep in an awkward angle that leaves your neck aching so much you can barely move it. Or sometimes you wake up on your arm, which feels dead from the circulation being cut off. Sometimes you wake up drooling, or wake up bathed in sweat, or wake up so thirsty your throat feels like it's been scrubbed with sandpaper. 

You'd come out to the living room after your nap and blanked out in front of the television, Wilson asking if you needed anything before he went to work. You ignored him. He left your pills on the coffee table, along with a jug of water and glass, and then silently left your apartment. Same old same old: you channel surfed, going through endless rounds of watching Oprah, Ricky Lake, crappy midday movies flashing before your eyes as you fired away at the TV with the remote before finally settling on some foreign movie you couldn't follow.

You don't remember falling asleep on the couch after taking your pills, and you don't remember the blanket being draped over you. And you don't realise Wilson's sitting in the room with you, watching television with his dinner on his lap, until you grunt in pain.

"Hey," he greets quietly.

You try to crane your neck to look at him perched in the armchair adjacent to you, but your neck muscles have seized up. You lick your lips, which are chapped and scaly from the medication. The corners of your mouth are cracked with papercut-like sores. So many horrible effects of long-term use of narcotics.

"What time is it?" you ask. Your voice is croaky and your tongue feels as dry as cotton wool.

"Evening," Wilson replies.

"How late?"

"Almost seven. You hungry? I made you some dinner."

"No."

"You sure?"

You groan as you try to shake the sluggish feeling the nap you'd had has left you with. "Need to piss."

"Want help up?"

"Fuck off."

Wilson sighs before you hear his fork scratching over his plate. "Suit yourself," he says.

You rub your face, trying to rub the grogginess away and then awkwardly shift yourself up into a proper sitting position. Oh god, your leg, your leg is aching badly, as well as your neck. You clutch at your thigh and rock back and forth slightly with your eyes squeezed shut, wishing to hell the pain would just _stop_ for five fucking seconds. You can feel Wilson's eyes on you, watching you, and you can almost feel Wilson's urge to ask _'you okay?' _.

"Haven't you got a wife to go home to?" you ask in a tight voice.

"She knows where I am," Wilson replies before mouthing a forkful of food.

You snort. "What, not even lying to her about staying late at work anymore?"

Wilson looks at you. "How can I," he asks, "when you're always calling me whenever I'm home?" You can't tell if Wilson's saying that out of annoyance or just stating blunt truth. He then shrugs as he cuts himself another bite of food. "Bonnie doesn't seem to have an issue with it. She knows you're… you know."

"Crippled," you finish for him, bitterly.

"More or less."

You stare at Wilson for a long moment before you reach for your cane and struggle with all your might to get up from the couch - not without cursing and hissing in pain, and you feel like shoving Wilson back from you when he's suddenly at your side and helping you to your feet.

At least he returns to his meal as you limp stiffly down the hall. When you reach the toilet, you brace one hand against the wall while holding your dick in your other hand. If one thing _is_ going right, you can piss properly and without hindrance. You flush and move across to the sink where you wash your hands and take to studying your face in the mirror.

Maybe it's just the glare of the light, the way it shines down on your face at unflattering angles, but you notice how _old_ you look: haggard, tired, pale, bags under your eyes, your stubble starting to turn into a beard. You feel so _ugly_. You never thought you were the most attractive man alive, but you know you used to look better than this. If there's to be yet another reason to hate yourself and what you've become, this is it - how horrible you look, as horrible as you feel.

You slap the light off in disgust as you leave the bathroom and resume your seat on the couch. Wilson asks again if you want food; you agree, just to shut him up, and when he returns from the kitchen he sets a plate of meat and vegetables on your lap. You're not actually that hungry, but you eat anyway for something to do, not truly tasting it because of how dry your mouth is. It hurts to eat, too; the small cuts in the corners of your mouth stinging every time you open your mouth to take in a bite of food.

Wilson brings you out some chocolate ice cream once you've eaten your meal, sitting beside you with his own bowl of the stuff and you eat in silence. He brings your pills out with a glass of water when you're finished and not long after you've taken them, you start to feel groggy again. Some life this is, being constantly doped up, living according to how the pills affect you and how your pain dictates your every move. This isn't even living; this is existing because you have no choice, and you wonder if life is ever going to get any better ever again. You'll return to work when you're well enough, that much you're sure of. Maybe one day you won't be in so much pain, maybe one day you'll get your life back on track and put this whole nightmare behind you.

Maybe. But not likely. You don't want to fill yourself up with false hope.

"I'm going to bed," you announce when you feel too doped to really focus on the TV anymore.

"Okay," Wilson says, watching you struggle up from the couch. "I'll be in to help you in a minute. And don't tell me to fuck off."

"Fuck off."

"Thought as much," Wilson sighs.

You make your way into the bathroom to brush your teeth and then move into the bedroom. You've got your shirt off by the time Wilson's walking into the room. You toss your shirt to the floor as he crouches down in front of you to tug your shoes off.

"You going home tonight?" you ask.

Wilson looks up at you, a little surprised. "I was planning to."

You nod. Of course; he has a wife. Not that you really care, but it's Wilson's choice to do something stupid like marry a twitchy, ferrety person like Bonnie.

"Why?" Wilson asks after a beat.

You shrug. "Just asking."

Wilson watches you as he strips your socks off and then stands up to help you take your sweatpants off. He pulls them down your hips and you sit back onto the edge of the bed. Stripped down to your boxers, Wilson stands back up and helps you get under the covers, helps you prop your pillows up and you ignore him when he wishes you good night. You roll awkwardly onto your side as he switches the light off and the room plunges into darkness.

Night time is the time you dread most. When you can't sleep, you find your mind drifting, thinking, pondering over the way things used to be and how they could've been, and how it is now. You think about Wilson, about Stacy, about everything you once were and everything you've become and how much you hate that. How out of control your life is now, how empty you are, how lonely you are. Even if you have Wilson to help you, you still feel incredibly lonely and alone, and you miss the person you used to be.

You miss Stacy, too, god you miss her. And hate her. It's the little things you miss about her, though; waking up in the morning with her, the way she'd smile at you, the way she'd scowl indignantly at you when you were being a deliberately annoying asshole, the way she'd sometimes rub your back at night as she snuggled up close to you. Yeah, you miss that. How can you not? She was the most important person in your life and now she's gone. And you hate her for that. You hate her for betraying your choice, too. You hate her so much, you miss her, you still love her, you _hate_ her.

You push your face into the pillow and try to snuff the thoughts from your mind. You can't even think of good things to occupy your mind with - music, that's about all you have at the moment. Music and Wilson. That's it. Not even medicine right now, seeing you're still too unfit to work.

Thank god for Wilson, you think sullenly, because without him you have no idea where you'd be. You're pretty sure he doesn't like you most of the time, and rightly so. You don't even like yourself, so you don't expect Wilson to like you any better. That doesn't stop you from needing him, though. You hate how much you need him; you hate admitting to yourself that you need him, too.

You shift restlessly on the bed, trying to get comfortable, wishing that your drugs made you sleep when you actually _want_ to sleep. You roll onto your back and stare up at the ceiling, watching the way the moonlight streams a pale glow across it. You can still hear the television playing in the living room and the faint sound of dishes being washed in the kitchen sink. Wilson will probably leave after he's finished cleaning up and you'll be left listening to the silence of your apartment, while the hours drag by. It was why you asked Wilson if he was going to stay the night - even if he slept in the living room, at least you'd know he was _there_.

You turn your head to the side to peer across at the wardrobe and without really thinking about it, you reach your hand down to your limp dick. You grope it, squeeze it, rub your palm across it without any actual desire to masturbate. You're just touching yourself because… you're a sad fucking bastard, and all you have that's remotely pleasurable is your penis. You push your hand into your boxers and take your cock in your hand, rub your thumb over the tip and then give your cock a few half-hearted tugs before you grope at your balls.

This is sad. And pathetic. And pointless. You pull your hand back out of your boxers and roll back onto your side, deciding to try and sleep again. The sound of Wilson washing up in the kitchen has stopped, and you hear the TV being switched off. Wilson's footsteps move around the living room before they start to move down the hallway and you think to yourself that Wilson's probably going to use the bathroom before he goes home.

Much to your surprise, you hear Wilson's footsteps moving into your bedroom and approaching the bed, where they stop. You force yourself to stay still when silence abruptly falls in the room. You're trying to work out what Wilson's doing - maybe he's… you have no idea. What could he possibly want?

You hear something that sounds like shoes being quietly dropped to the floor. You startle when the bed dips under Wilson's weight. "What're you doing" you ask in alarm, forgetting about keeping silent.

Wilson falters, and then continues to shift onto the bed. "What does it look like?" he asks in a hushed voice, as though he doesn't want to be overheard - even though it's just the two of you in your room.

"I don't know what it looks like," you reply warily, "but it _feels_ like you're getting into my bed."

"_On_to your bed."

"Same thing."

You lie there, feeling confused as to what the hell Wilson's doing. Even more confused when you feel Wilson's hand on your back. The bed covers pull tight around your body as Wilson settles on top of them. He's still fully dressed, as far as you can tell. Which you're glad of. Actually, you're not sure if it really makes any difference, seeing _he's lying on your fucking bed with you_. He settles close behind you, his breath against the back of your neck and his hand now resting on your upper arm.

"Wilson," you begin.

"House," he cuts you off warningly.

You ignore him. "What're you--"

"Just shut up, for once."

You snap your mouth closed. Wilson sighs deeply and drops his hand from your arm, tucking himself in against your back securely and you feel his face nestling just against the back of your neck. You should be freaked out by this, you really should be, because Wilson's never done this before and you don't know how to respond or react, or even feel. But the thing is, Wilson's seen so much of you, has seen you at your absolute lowest, even squirted an enema up your god damn ass to help you shit, that you can't bring yourself to even feel freaked out. Confused, yes. But not freaked out. Maybe the freaked out part will come later. Or maybe you're just too stoned to be able to react right now. Maybe it's a range of different reasons.

Whatever the reason, you find yourself slowly, very slowly, relaxing. Wilson doesn't touch you anywhere else, doesn't do anything assuming, just rests against you and you find his warm, firm presence behind you strangely reassuring and comforting. You listen to his steady breathing, your own breathing falling into rhythm with his.

"Don't tell me to fuck off," Wilson murmurs after a long stretch of silence, and you flinch in surprise at the unexpected sound, "because I'm not going anywhere."

You can't bring yourself to say anything at first. You open your mouth, then close it again, and swallow quietly. You stare across at the window, watching the shadows of the tree branches moving about in the breeze outside.

"I know," you finally reply.

You didn't realise Wilson was tense until you feel him suddenly relax against you at your admission, as though he's scared you're going to bite his head off, tell him to get fucked like you've been saying to him at every opportunity. And it's like he reads your mind: "What, no 'fuck off' this time?"

You pause. This, Wilson getting onto your bed after you asked him if he was going home tonight, has happened so suddenly and unexpectedly that you're still trying to puzzle over why Wilson would do this. You'd been very vaguely aware of the times Wilson stroked your hair when you've been on the brink of sleep - or maybe you only dreamt those things happening. It's always hard to tell when you're slipping into drug-induced sleep. "When I asked if you were going home tonight, this isn't what I had in mind."

"You want me to leave?" he asks quietly.

"You just said not to tell you to fuck off."

Wilson snorts softly. "Since when have you ever listened to me?"

You pause once more. "Never."

"Well, then, like I asked - no 'fuck off' this time?"

You swallow again. A part of you _wants_ to tell him to fuck off, partly out of habit, mostly because you don't know what he's doing here on your bed, pressed up against you like this. Another part of you wants him to stay because it's been a long time since you've felt someone spooning up against you like this, secure and warm. It makes you realise how exhausted you feel and you decide, for now, for once, that you can't be bothered fighting with Wilson, fighting against Wilson. You want him to stay, even if it's just until you fall asleep.

"Next time," you say in a tired voice. "Maybe."

"Next time," he agrees.

You nod almost imperceptibly and wearily close your eyes.


	2. Close Your Weary Eyes

**Close Your Weary Eyes**

You wake up just before dawn.

The room is dark and chilly, silent except for the quiet in-out of House's breathing as he sleeps beside you. He sounds peaceful, the most peaceful you recall hearing him in months; the way he draws his breath in slowly and deeply and exhales calmly. Like he's unaware of his pain. You stare across at the window, the first rays of dawn peeking through the gaps in the curtains, and you find yourself wishing you could bottle House's stillness and keep it. Just hearing how peaceful he sounds makes you realise how exhausted you are.

You didn't sleep very well. You couldn't, not with how restless House was during the night. You'd laid here and listened to House grunting in pain every time he moved and muttering quietly to himself when he couldn't get comfortable. You got up and fetched him a glass of water when he murmured that he was thirsty, and you helped him to the bathroom at around three in the morning and stood in the doorway, yawning and rubbing your bleary eyes to shield them from the harsh glow of the light. When you climbed back into bed with House, you heard him moan in pain and you'd had this sudden urge to gather him in your arms, wanting to smother his pain and smother his groans because you were just so damn tired and wanted to sleep.

You didn't, though. You lay beside him on your back, staring up at the ceiling until you finally heard his breathing even out as he lulled into sleep. If you'd gone home like you normally do, you would've been able to get a much better sleep than this. You could have snuggled up to Bonnie as a way of saying sorry for not being home often enough. You could have woken up tired but refreshed. But House needed you and you wanted to try and give him comfort, even despite all the times he'd told you to fuck off. You'd wondered if it was even worth it, given how much House seems to hate and resent you for never leaving. You'd shifted onto your side and moved up close behind him when you felt your eyes becoming heavy, and gently rubbed his back until you fell asleep.

In the distance outside, you hear a bird suddenly twitter, echoed by another bird nearby. You lift your hands to your face and rub it, your eyes feeling itchy and your head heavy with tiredness. You turn your head when you drop your hands away, to look at House and you can just make out his face in the murky twilight. His mouth is slack and his eyes are twitching in REM. The lines usually so heavily set on his face from pain and anger appear softer, and that bitter expression he always wears these days is gone. He looks so tranquil, almost vulnerable, that you have this urge to reach across and touch his face. Stroke his cheek with the back of your knuckles or smooth his hair back gently.

You quietly move onto your side and bunch the pillow under your head, and as you listen to the two birds outside now shrieking in unison to announce the break of a new day, you keep watching him. God, you hate him sometimes. Sometimes, you hate him so much with how much he seems to hate you that you want to walk out and wipe your hands clean of him. Sometimes you want to throw his pills at him and tell him to get fucked, just like he tells you. There have been times he's angered you to the point that you've almost broken down into tears, because you give _so much_ of yourself to help him; it becomes draining and tiring to have it all thrown back in your face.

And sometimes, you feel so fiercely protective of him that you want to collect him up in your arms and just hold him. Those times when he's in so much pain that he's in tears, those times when he's frustrated with himself to the point of giving up, times like now when he looks so far removed from all his pain and everything he struggles with.

You shift in a little closer until his shoulder is pressed against your chest. He snuffles in his sleep and rolls his head towards you, his eyelids fluttering and twitching again. You sigh quietly and lift your hand to his hair, stroking it back once. You crane your neck and press a light kiss to his forehead and then close your eyes and just as you start to recede into a fitful snooze, you feel House tuck his face in against your neck.

You fall back to sleep with your hand cradling his head close to you.

* * *

You're standing in the bedroom doorway, leaning against the doorframe with your arms crossed over your chest. "You're awake." 

House lifts is head from the pillow and looks at you groggily. He drops his head back down. "Yeah," he replies flatly, as though he really wishes he wasn't awake. Or alive.

You clear your throat. "Wondered when you were going to wake up. It's almost ten."

House grunts dismissively. You can already tell that he's back in one of those moods again, which causes a stab of frustration to flare in you. He can't help it and you know that, but you just get so tired of fighting him. You watch him stiffly roll onto his side as he scrubs his face with his hand.

"Breakfast?" you ask, keeping your tone light.

"Not hungry."

"Coffee?"

"No."

You sigh. You refuse to be defeated by House's mood, though; you push yourself away from the doorframe and take a few idle steps into the room, arms still crossed over your chest. "Sleep well?"

"Don't you have something better to do?" House asks. His tone is so sharp, it sounds more like a warning than a question.

"I'm just asking if you slept well," you argue mildly.

"You were here, weren't you?"

You swallow at House's cold response and look away at the window. The sun is streaming through bright, making you squint. You're not sure what the best thing to do is: leave House be for a few hours and get some time to yourself, or pursue this forced conversation and try to make yourself useful around him. That's the thing - House has this _way_ of making you feel useless and unhelpful, no matter how much you try to do everything you can for him. God, it's frustrating.

You look back to him and watch the way he's curling up on his side with his back facing you, obviously trying to ignore you. Last night he'd actually responded to you when you climbed onto the bed with him. He'd been silent, he listened to you, he gave up trying to shut you out when you clutched his arm and lay close to him. A part of you wants to climb back on the bed now and do the very same thing: make House stop being so closed off and stubborn, make him acknowledge that you care about him more than you probably care about yourself. You sigh again and look down to the floor, feeling useless and pointless just standing here.

"Do you need anything?" you finally ask.

"Fuck off."

You lift your eyes and stare at House's back and after a few moments of silence, you leave the room, quietly closing the door behind you.

* * *

Routine is what keeps you going. You'd go crazy if you didn't have routine to keep you focused, in control and occupied. Today is Saturday, which means it's cleaning day. You have to keep yourself busy if you spend the whole day with House on weekends, if only to stop yourself from yelling at him in frustration and to stop the vicious barbs House throws at you from getting too far under your skin. 

You've cleaned the bathroom, the kitchen and you're about to start vacuuming the living room when your cell phone starts ringing. You abandon the vacuum to answer it, your stomach twisting at seeing Bonnie's name on the caller i.d. screen. Shit.

"Hey," you greet, being sure to sound happy to hear from her.

"Where were you last night?" Bonnie's voice is tight; it's the same tone she uses whenever she talks about House around you.

"Bonnie, I, uh… House. He, uh… he had a rough night. I had to stay to help him."

Silence. "You didn't call."

You sit down heavily on the arm of the couch, pinching the bridge of your nose. You want to tell her that House really needed you and that you meant to call but just didn't get around to it. The best way around Bonnie, though, is to apologise and sound sincere about it. "I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry."

You hear her draw in a sharp breath and then exhale slowly. "Will you be coming home today?"

God, you feel guilty when she asks questions like that. You glance towards the direction of House's bedroom. "I'll call you later," you reply noncommittally.

"Oh." A pause. "I guess I'll hear from you then."

You rub your face with your hand and nod, even though she can't see you. "You will. I promise." You push yourself up. "I love you."

"I love you, too, James."

You're not sure you believe her. She hangs up before you get a chance to say good bye. You draw your phone from your ear and peer down at it before snapping it shut and throwing it onto the couch with a tired sigh. Not wanting to think about Bonnie because it just makes you feel guilty, you move back to the vacuum cleaner and start vacuuming the living room. You quickly zoom around the couch, under the coffee table, over the rug, the roaring sound of the vacuum's motor flooding the apartment as loud as a jackhammer against cement. You're vacuuming behind the television when you hear House yell sharply from the bedroom, "Can't you fucking do that any quieter?!"

You ignore him. The housework needs to be done, after all. It helps you feel accomplished, too, which is a far cry from how you feel with House most days. You move across to the entrance of the hallway, sucking up the dust gathering on the skirting board when House shouts out again, angrier this time: "Stop fucking vacuuming! Jesus Christ!" You ignore him still until you hear House bellow, "_Wilson_!"

You hit the off switch with your foot and throw an infuriated look towards House's room. "_Thank_ you," you hear House bark snidely. "You're lucky I didn't come down there and stuff your head up your ass."

You keep glaring down the hall. For a brief, childish moment, you consider dragging the vacuum cleaner into his bedroom just to piss him off further. Maybe vacuum the fucking bed with him in it. You rub your face and take a deep breath to calm your nerves, before lugging the vacuum to the cupboard and stashing it away.

It's just on one by the time you finish cleaning, and you feel a lot calmer. You make lunch for yourself and House - vegetable soup and buttered rolls. You're not sure if House will actually eat and you don't want to ask if he's hungry in case that just gives him another opportunity to tell you to fuck off. You set the food down on the coffee table in the living room and then head for House's room.

You knock quietly and let yourself in. House is still lying on his side. You can't tell if he's asleep or awake.

"House."

He stirs. He doesn't answer you, though.

"I made you some lunch," you continue.

Silence.

You watch him uncertainly. "House?"

"Go away."

"You need to eat," you say, moving your hand to the back of your neck to rub it.

"Don't care."

"You haven't eaten since yesterday."

"Don't _care_."

You give the back of your neck a frustrated squeeze before crossing your arms over your chest. You're not going to let House shut you out, you decide. He's going to eat his lunch, whether he likes it or not, because you fucking made it, just like you fucking cleaned his apartment and gave him an enema and periodically wipe his fucking ass.

"You need to eat," you repeat, firmly this time.

House lifts his head from the pillow and shoots you a sharp look. "I don't _need_ anything."

"Fine." You hold your hands up in surrender at him, wondering not for the first time if you should just wipe your hands completely clean of him. "You lie there and starve and get yourself to the bathroom without my help, seeing as how you obviously don't need it."

House glares at you. "Fuck off."

"You're so fucking predictable."

"And you won't fucking _leave_."

You stare at House, feeling stung. You do so much for him, and yet… You start turning towards the door. "I'll leave, then, if that's what you want."

Maybe you _will_ leave and never come back. You know none of this is House's fault, but there's only so much you can take. You close your hand around the doorknob to pull the door shut behind you when you hear House say, "Don't leave."

You stop in your tracks, staring at the wall across the hallway. Why does everything have to be a fight before House ever concedes to anything? You drop your eyes to the floor and sigh before turning your head to look back at House. He's watching you with a look you can't quite decipher. Defeat, or fear, maybe desperation… You're not sure, but as you face back towards him to re-enter the room, the look he's giving you fades to something like relief. That makes you feel a little better - at least House _does_ need you, even if he won't admit it himself.

"Come on," you say in a gentler tone when you reach his bedside and pull the covers back from him. "Need to go to the bathroom?"

House doesn't reply as he stretches his hand out to you. You take it his silent gesture means yes. You grasp his hand and help him sit up before giving him his cane. You follow him to the bathroom, keeping one hand on his lower back as he limps slowly and awkwardly out of the room. You help him pull his boxers down and lower him to the toilet, and he looks up at you sheepishly when he passes wind.

Not that you care if he farts. Or pisses. Or craps. Or pukes his guts up. You've wiped up his shit, mopped up his vomit, given him an enema for fuck's sake - him passing wind is nothing. You just shrug at him in a 'don't worry about it' manner as you lean back against the bathroom sink, waiting for him to finish.

"I slept well," House says.

You give him an exasperated look. God, House is frustrating. He puts up that much of a fight, all the time, and then finally offers conversation when it suits him, usually at the most random and bizarre times. You resist the urge to roll your eyes and instead give him a tight, thin-lipped smile. You don't believe he did sleep well - hell, you endured the night with him. But his definition of sleeping well no doubt differs greatly from yours. Perhaps a couple of hours of uninterrupted sleep is considered 'sleeping well' to House.

"Good," you reply.

He watches you for a moment. "You didn't have to stay."

It suddenly occurs to you that some of the most civil conversations you've had with House since he came from the hospital have been when he's on the toilet. You're not sure why that is. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he has no reason to hide anything when he's got his boxers around his ankles in front of you, doing the most undignified thing as sitting on the toilet.

"I know," you say.

He watches you for another moment before looking down to tuck his penis into the toilet bowl to piss. You think nothing of it; you're so used to seeing House on the toilet now that it's become a normal part of your everyday life.

"What's for lunch?" he asks.

"Vegetable soup."

He glances up at you. "I hate soup."

"No, you don't."

"I do," he argues.

"You've liked it every time I've made it," you counter.

"I lied."

You roll your eyes. You don't believe him; you know he's only being contrary just to be contrary. You can tell by the non-confrontational tone of his voice. It's a weird thing House does to be civil, few and far between though those civil moments of his are. You push yourself away from the sink as House finishes peeing. "Well, you can lie about liking _this_ soup I've made you, too, if it makes you feel better."

"Your soup is gross," he complains, lifting his arm up for you to help him from the toilet.

You hook your hand under his arm. "So I'm sure you'll keep making a point of telling me."

You haul him up with a grunt, feeling him grabbing at your shirt for balance. You pull the flush and help him across to the sink so he can wash his hands. He washes his face while he's at it and after you hand him a towel to dry up with, you guide him to the living room and sit him on the couch. You get his pills and a glass of water for him to wash them down with before taking a seat beside him.

"Looks like vomit," he comments, picking his spoon up.

"I'm sure it tastes like it, too," you agree dryly. You watch him take a small mouthful, noticing he's unable to open his mouth very wide. Probably due to the sores on the corners of his mouth, a side effect of his drugs - the sores look red and irritated. You turn your attention down to your soup and dip your bread roll into it.

"Thanks," House says quietly as he lifts another spoonful to his mouth. "For everything."

You glance at him, surprised. House has never thanked you, just like he's never said sorry for any of the hurtful words he's thrown at you. You open your mouth to reply and then think better of it, and look back down to your soup. Best to just take his small offering of gratitude in silence, else he might turn on you like an angry cobra for making a fuss. Even a simple 'You're welcome' could be seen as making a fuss to House. He's so unpredictable, like a field of landmines, that you're never quite sure where to step around him. You don't know what prompted House to say that, but you find yourself smiling slightly.

"You're right," you say in a lighter tone after taking a bite of your roll. "Tastes like vomit."

It doesn't and you know House would agree with you, at least secretly. House just snorts and when you look across at him you catch him giving you a small smile.

You smile back and think to yourself as you dip more bread roll into your soup, it's rare moments like this, tiny moments like this, that make putting up with House worth it.

You switch the TV on when you finish your lunch and leave House with the remote while you go into House's bedroom to change his sheets. And to call Bonnie. You change the bed first before calling her. She sounds just as uptight as when she called you this morning. You apologise again and tell her you love her, and then tell her you probably won't be home again tonight.

"House really needs me right now," you explain to her gently.

"_I_ need you, James," Bonnie replies tightly.

You sigh. "House can't help what's happened to him. He doesn't have anybody else. You'd do the same for a friend if they needed you like this, wouldn't you?"

It's probably unfair to Bonnie to manipulate her like this, but House really does need you and Bonnie knows where you are if she really needs you, too. You feel relieved when she finally relents and you tell her once again that you love her.

You snap your phone shut when the call ends and drop your face into your hand. At least House thanked you. That small bit of gratitude has given you enough hope and encouragement to want to keep sticking by his side, because at least you know that he does appreciate you underneath all his bitterness.

You join House on the couch again and blank out in front of a Danny Kaye movie. You end up falling asleep with your feet propped up on the coffee table and your hands resting limp on your lap.

When you wake up about an hour later, House is fast asleep with his head against your shoulder, snoring.

* * *

House is in a lot of pain tonight. More pain than usual. 

You stand in the kitchen doorway, watching House on the couch. He's pale, sweating and rocking back and forth as he clutches at his thigh. You've done everything you can for him, which isn't much - just gave him his pills and tried to suggest a warm bath, only to be told viciously to fuck off. You know how much House hates it when you make any kind of fuss around him, so you left him to it, and went into the kitchen to wash the dishes. You have nothing left to do now, which is why you're standing here, feeling useless as you watch House suffering.

You can't stand here forever and do nothing, though. Especially when you hear House whimper quietly in pain. The look of distress on his face is heartbreaking.

"You sure you don't want me to run you a bath?" you ask.

He shakes his head sharply, dropping his face down as he continues to rock back and forth.

"Might do you good," you say.

He shakes his head again. "No," he replies through gritted teeth.

You heave a deep, frustrated sigh and cross your arms over your chest. "Heat packs?"

"No."

"How about--"

"Just _fuck off_," House angrily demands and glares at you so coldly you think you might need to check your extremities for frostbite.

You abruptly close your mouth. You tighten your arms around your chest, wanting to approach him, but knowing you probably shouldn't. He'd probably lash out at you if you did; it wouldn't be the first time he's done that. God, you hate feeling so helpless. You hate not knowing what to do, or what to say, or whether you should even do or say anything in the first place. You hate the fact that you've been doing this for _months_ for House, and you _still_ don't know where to step around him.

"House," you try after a long stretch of silence. He ignores you, so you say as you take a tentative step towards him, "House, tell me what you need."

"Get lost," he bites out.

"Just _tell_ me."

"I don't _need anything_!" he shouts at you. "There's _nothing_ you can do to help me, so just make yourself useful and fuck off!"

You draw in a sharp breath and try your hardest not to feel stung by House's words. He's just in a lot of pain, you remind yourself. He doesn't really mean that. He needs you, you know that. He wouldn't have thanked you if he really didn't think he needed you. You lift a hand to the back of your neck and rub it anxiously, not knowing where to place yourself in the room.

Just as you're about to ask him if he knows _why_ he's in so much pain tonight, he grabs his cane and tries to stand up. He can't, of course, but he won't let you help him, not at first. He tells you again to fuck off when you approach him and all you can do is stand back and watch. You want to yell at him, tell him to stop being so fucking stubborn, you feel like tearing your hair out in anguish because House would make this so much easier for both of you if he just relented for once in his god damn miserable life.

He only accepts your help when he resigns himself to the fact that he can't get up on his own, and you take him by the arm and pull him up. You ignore his vicious glares as you guide him down to the bedroom and by the time you've helped him into bed, he's wheezing quietly from being in so much pain.

You leave the bedroom because he obviously doesn't want you there, switching the light off on the way, and when you reach the living room you stand in the middle of it and a sudden urge to cry overcomes you. Your chest twists sharply, your heart beats faster, you feel your throat tightening and you cover your face with your hands to try and hold back the tears stinging your eyes. You draw in a breath and you're horrified to feel it hitch and shudder. No, you're not going to cry. You furiously rub the heels of your palms into your eyes, as if to snuff the tears. God damn it, you're _not going to cry_. You're stronger than that.

It takes a lot of effort to keep yourself from spilling over into weak, pathetic tears. Just that battle alone drains you to the point where you feel suddenly exhausted. You sit down wearily on the couch and stare down at the coffee table. You can feel the beginnings of a splitting headache forming behind your eyes. You pinch the bridge of your nose and decide to go and find some Tylenol when you hear a sound from House's bedroom. A loud, pain-filled sob.

You look in the direction of House's room, listening. You hear another sob and that's all it takes for you to get to your feet and make your way down to House's bedroom. Light from the hall streams into the dark room and you can just make out the shape of House's body under the bed covers. He's shifting about restlessly. You hear him quietly whimper. You move into the room and cross to the bed, and after you toe your shoes off you climb on. Just like last night. Because, damn it, you can't just stand back and do nothing.

"Go away," House says sharply.

You ignore him. You shift further onto the bed and stretch your hand out, laying it on House's arm.

House jerks away from you. "Go _away_."

"House," you quietly order. You reach for his arm again.

"Don't touch me." He jerks away once more. "Don't _touch_ me."

"Come on," you coax, unable to hide the edge of frustration creeping into your voice. "House, come on."

"Are you deaf?" House spits. He yanks his arm away when you try clasping it again and raises it as if to defend himself from you. "Fuck _off_."

"House, please." You reach for his arm, again.

"I don't want you here."

You grip his arm tight this time, tight enough that he'd have to really fight you to make you let go. "I know you don't."

"Then why are you here?" he demands, and he does put up a fight - he wrestles against you, grunting in effort and pain.

"Stop it," you say, shifting closer to him.

"Let me go."

"House, stop it."

"Fuck _off_." He suddenly wrenches his arm free and flings it up at you, striking you across the face.

You're stunned for a brief moment. House throws his arm out at you to hit you again and in an abrupt burst of frustration you snap into action, seizing his wrist tight in your hand.

"Stop it!" you angrily command. "Just _stop_ it, House!"

House suddenly does, for a moment. Long enough for you to lie down beside him and wrap your arm around him. Please be still, you silently beg. Please, just be still, just let me do this, please.

You tighten your arm when you feel House start struggling against you, pressing your chest firmly against his back. He keeps wrestling, breathing heavily, caught between gasping in pain and grunting in exertion to try and get you to let go. His back is wet, his shirt soaked through with sweat. So is the back of his neck and his hair. You don't care, though; you just clutch him tighter the more he fights against you, feeling him grab at your hand to try and throw your arm off him.

You quickly snatch his hand in yours to make him stop. You feel his fingernails digging into your palm. God, he's like a feral cat trying to escape capture. You squeeze him in your arms, trying to stifle his attempts to fight you off and trying to hug him at the same time, _trying_ to get him to just be still. Just as you think he's about to find enough strength to throw you off him, he lets out a helpless, defeated sob and suddenly goes limp.

You pull him against you and bury your face into the back of his neck, not caring that he stinks or that he's sweaty. You let his hand go and grab a fistful of his shirt, your chest flooding with an overwhelming feeling of protectiveness for him. He lets out another sob, a hitched one this time, and you realise that the way he's trembling isn't just because he's in pain but because he's crying.

"It's okay," you murmur. You feel his hand clasp over yours, sweaty and shaky. "Come on, it's okay."

He gives another half-hearted struggle, which you smother by squeezing him in your arm. "Fuck off," he tells you weakly.

You don't say anything, just cradle him close. You listen to his shuddering breaths and feel him tensing up in jerked spasms of pain. You're still pumping full of Adrenalin from fighting with House, though as the minutes tick on you start to realise how tired you are. Tired, so fucking tired.

"I hate this so much," House whispers.

"I know," you say. You release your hold on his shirt and lift your hand to his head, and start stroking back his damp hair. "It's okay," you assure him again.

"No, it's not."

He's right: no, it's not okay. None of this is okay. None of this is fair or right. Not to you, not to House. You stroke his hair again and press a small, unassuming kiss to his shoulder. "Just close your eyes and try to rest."

You hear him sigh shakily. He reaches up and takes your hand from his head, and draws it down to clutch it close to his chest. Just that small act of concession from House makes you feel exhausted. You don't want to fight him anymore, not tonight. He can fight you tomorrow. And the next day, and the day after that. Just not tonight.

He squeezes your hand and as you squeeze his in return, you wearily close your eyes.

**end**


End file.
